


Like a Ship Lost in the Ocean

by Masterofceremonies



Series: All The Ways [3]
Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottoming from the Top, Death, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV Second Person, Topping from the Bottom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-16
Updated: 2016-03-16
Packaged: 2018-05-27 03:15:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6267358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Masterofceremonies/pseuds/Masterofceremonies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Athelstan is keeping a journal because he cannot confess his sins to anyone else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like a Ship Lost in the Ocean

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't quite "explicit" despite being a sex scene. It doesn't specifically name any parts, but it's pretty clear what's happening. 
> 
> I basically approached this by thinking "how can I describe, in detail, Athelstan getting fucked by Floki without actually swearing" so enjoy.

_Now that you live in the Jarls home in Kattegat, you can easily go to meet the longboats as soon as they pull in instead of needing to take a day long trek through the woods the night before. Instead, you can head down to the docks as soon as you awake to wait with the other families and friends of the warriors and shield maidens who left home to raid. You are often the first one there, early in the morning, when most others are still tending to their household duties. It is rare that you have chores to do any more. Mostly you train. You had been learning how to wield an axe under Ragnar’s tutelage, but since he left to raid you had continued practicing on your own._

_The bruises that dotted your skin were not always from sparring, but it is convenient to have such a ready excuse for such injuries._

_The ships appear as dots on the horizon, details becoming clearer with each passing moment until you can make out the individual men on board. One ship in the lead captures and holds your interest. A man is clinging to the bow, lanky arms wrapped around the carved image of a serpent, the strain in the line of his body making it apparent that he is eager to reach land._

_You let the crowd mill around you, not attempting to push forward like others do. Children and wives are the most eager to be first, excitement or fear written plainly on their faces, eager to see their fathers, or nervous they might have become widows. The ships meet the dock, some men jumping into the water, preferring to wade to shore rather than wait for others to clear the way._

_Ragnar steps off the ship with his usual grace, his movements seeming thoughtless while remaining precise. You focus your gaze on him, trying not to betray where your real interest lies. He approaches you, the smile on his lips not reaching his eyes, before clasping your shoulder in a friendly greeting. You cannot find the energy to concern yourself with what is bothering him, despite the fact that you can read the worry plainly on his face._

_You start to ask how the raids went, but before you can speak, he cuts you off, making some comment about wanting to see his family before striding off into town. You laugh, shaking your head as you watch him go. It is not his children he is so anxious to see, but rather, his wife. Long periods at sea can be hard for a man, especially one with Ragnar’s... appetite._

_Still chuckling to yourself, you turn, locking eyes with him. Of course he’s watching you. He knows you are waiting for him, not Ragnar. But as much as you want to approach him, embrace him, you cannot. Not in front of the other men. Not when he might turn away, taunt you, or even look at you with the expression of disgust he has for all Christians. He has done it before, when you tried to speak with him around others, when you dared sit next to him at the hearth. He has certainly made up for the times he turned his back on you, tossing barbed words over his shoulder until you wandered off. He has soothed the stinging wounds caused by his scorn time and time again, murmuring half-truths, mixed apologies, and feeble excuses._

_You drank them down like mead until you were dizzy with hope that it is an act, to protect his reputation, and maybe even protect yours. You know the shame brought to those considered_ ergi _, feminine, because only a weak man would let another dominate him, let such things take place in the bedroom. He would not find shame in bedding you, for he does not let you control him in any way, but he hides your trysts for a different reason. He has someone else waiting for him in a small house deep in the woods, someone he loves, someone who's heart would shatter if she learned of the happenings between the two of you._

 _Once, and only once, you asked why he kept you from her. His eyes had flashed, and before you could lose your nerve, more questions tumbled from your lips. You asked him why you heard tales of him inviting others to join them in bed, why you were different then the men who he had let be with not only him but her too, and if he saw you as so_ argr _that you could not be with a woman at all._

_He had grabbed your shoulders roughly, and you almost thought he was about to strike you, but instead he spoke.  His voice came out in a low hiss, despite the fact that you were in no danger of being overheard, and he told you that you should not compare yourself to the others._

**I do not want... foolish priest... my wife is... you are not one to be shared.**

_You were surprised to hear him stumble over his words, unable to find the right phrasing. He seemed the type to always know what to say. But you simply bowed your head in an effort to placate him, and he dropped his grip before hurrying away._

_Your mind returns to the present as you nod your head towards the main hall, a silent invitation, but he does not nod back. He simply stares, eyes dulled in a way that makes you frown worriedly. You bite the inside of your cheek, trying to think of a good enough excuse to talk to him without suspicion, but he takes your chance away by turning and sloughing away from the crowd. Glancing around, you notice the other warriors have similar postures, similar expressions, all looking worn out and sullen even as they unload crate upon crate of treasure._

_Your eyes scan over the townsfolk, finding not one of them smiling. You cannot fathom what happened during the raids to cause this reaction, and why you seem to be the only one who is not in a foul mood. The treasure they brought back seems to be plentiful, the weight of it causing the two ships to sail low on the waves…_

_Something occurs to you, your head snapping up to stare in disbelief at the dock before coming to a realization with a nauseous feeling._

_Two ships. There are only two. Three left Kattegat, weeks ago, and now…_

_You feel dizzy, swaying in place as your mind races. In a haze, you try to pick out all the familiar faces from the crowd. He is safe, you know that, and so is Ragnar. Rollo too, you can see him stomping off into town. Torstein, One-eye… no one you can think of seems to be missing. But you are still an outsider, you have not lived here all your life, you do not think of the townsfolk as family._

_Not most of them anyway._

_If an entire ship is missing, something horrible must have happened. Making a split second decision, you quickly slip away from the crowd, following the path you know he took, leading you from the busy heart of town and towards the old barns and food storages that are abandoned more often than not._

_It does not take you long to find him. He is in an old building, almost caved in from rot and wear, one that appears to be too broken even to be used by drunken couples during celebrations looking for privacy. It suits the two of you perfectly, and you often come here when you need to escape._

_Pushing open the door, you let in a grey patch of light with you, illuminating the dust as it swirls through the air. He is sitting on the floor, slouched against a wall that barely supports itself, staring into space. The way his legs are sprawled out in front of him makes him look like a toddler set down on the floor to play while his mother cooks supper. He does not look up when you enter, closing the door behind you so the room is cast in dull shadows. Nor does he move when you step closer, hesitatingly calling out his name, then wincing at the sound of your too loud voice cutting through the otherwise stagnant air._

_You kneel beside him, worriedly reaching out to stroke his cheek, your fingertips shaking as they brush his skin, avoiding the faint smears of kohl despite the urge to grasp his face and demand that he tell you what’s wrong._

_When he does not recoil from your hesitant touch, you slide your palm down his arm to grasp his wrist, resting your other hand on his knee. This seems to bring him somewhat out of his reverie, and he turns to face you, eyes still focused on something that does not exist._

_You ask him what happened, and his eyes slide over to meet yours, wide and vacant and fearful. He begins to speak in a hushed tone, every word strained, like he is still seeing what he describes._

**Thor was angry with us**.

_Frowning, you remain silent in hopes that he will continue. You can tell that this pains him, and it pains you too, but you have to know._

**He beat his anvil and the waves grew ever taller, soaked the boats, and one went down, heavy with water. We saw it, and heard the cries of the men hauled down into the deep.**

_You can see it too, reflected in his eyes, the image of a great storm, a ship sinking beneath the waves, only illuminated in flashes of lightening._ ****

**At first light, we saw them. Floating on the waves. It was the bodies of men all drowned, bloated, with seagulls and crows pecking at their flesh…**

_Now it is your eyes that widen, staring at him in disbelief. He looks close to tears, staring at you while staring at nothing as if pleading for a comfort. He does not want to believe that something like this happened. Every line of his body seems to have shattered, the light inside of him extinguished, replaced by fog. The same type of grey mist that creeps under every layer of clothing you, twines under doors and through cracks in walls, seeping into your very bones so that blazing fires do nothing to banish the chill no matter how close to the hearth you edge._

_He is normally so… strong. In many meanings of the word. You have witnessed him in battle and during sacrifices, giggling and twirling about like death is but a game. But now… seeing his kinsmen die, without cause, without glory, dragged under the waves to choke on salt before surfacing as food for the crows… it **broke** him. _

_You do not know what to say, what you can say, or if you have air enough in your lungs to even force sound past your lips, but you know that now is when he needs you to be someone different for him. You need to ignore the part of yourself that feels the urge to pray for the lost souls at sea, the part that would normally speak of God’s will and His plan for all humans._

_You cannot even assure him that his fellow warriors are in Valhalla, knowing only that warriors who die in battle are sent there, but not if drowning at sea is seen as a glorious enough demise to earn a seat in Odin’s hall._

_You place your hand against his neck as if to assure yourself that he is there, relieved that a pulse beats beneath his skin even as you feel guilt for taking comfort in his safety when others died so horribly. You do not know what he wants to hear, what a true Northman would say in this circumstance, so you simply speak the truth, the only thought you are certain of, the only thing you can truly feel in this moment._

**_Thank the gods you are alive._ **

_He blinks hard, letting out a shuddering sigh as the memory finally fades. He is here, at least, for now, his eyes pulling away from the blood stained corpses in his mind to see you, worry etched into every part of your face. You relax as much as you can given the situation and half pull him into a kiss, leaning in as you tug him forward in to press one against his lips, slightly parted in dazed surprise._

_Up until this moment, he had always been the one to take the first step. You ran after him willingly, of course, but you had never been able to cross that invisible barrier between you, put up when others were around, and torn down by his eager hands as soon as you had a moment of privacy._

_He was always the one to kiss first, grab your arm and tug you into a darkened corner, pin you against the nearest surface. But now, he looks so scared and lost, like a child after a nightmare, and you know that he needs you to take control. He kisses you back fiercely, some of his usual vigor returning to his actions, but the hand that twines in your hair to draw you closer is shaking, and the noises that bubble from his lips are closer to whimpers than moans._

_You shift forward determinedly, straddling his legs as you situate yourself on his lap, managing to not break the kiss while moving. You cup his face as you kiss him, not gently, not softly, but tenderly, with a slow passion that had never appeared between you before. The raw hunger, the aching emptiness that you are used to preempting your encounters is not there, and while you crave his touch, it is a different sort of desire that you feel for him now._

_You want to protect him, bring him back from the edge of whatever cliff he is teetering on, pull him to safety and hold him… you really just want to hold him. Closely. Tightly. Always._

_With nothing stopping you, and a newfound confidence strumming through you, that is exactly what you do. Your hands slip away from his face, and he gasps, breaking the kiss with a nervous expression, searching your face as if expecting you to leave, or belittle him for his emotion._

_But you simply slide your touch downwards, wrapping your arms around his back and clutching at the stiff leather of his tunic. You do not lean in for another kiss, merely hold his gaze, telling him everything with a look that you cannot put into words. His hands relax with the rest of his body, no longer gripping your hair tightly, but toying with the strands._

_Then, and only then, do you kiss him again, softly this time, and gently, with all the care that you have never felt before in your life, but that does not mean you cannot give it to him. Shockingly, he returns the very same adoration, mirroring your sentiment exactly._

_When your hands move from his back, it is not in a rush of need and heated passion, but a surefooted desire, a heat that warms you instead of burning. Maybe his cold skin helps, maybe the icy water of the ocean tempered his usual fervor, maybe the gods sacrificed all those men to allow you to feel this closeness, and as horrifically self serving a thought like that is, you send a prayer of thanks to the heavens that you are able to see him like this._

_Be with him like this._

_You tug the drawstrings of his trousers loose, not pulling them off, but just enough to free him. Such a gesture may seem crass, but you need to be close to him as much as you possibly can, and the way he rocks into your touch lets you know he feels the same. Breaking the kiss, you press your foreheads together, the gesture normally meant for kinsmen and brothers taking on a much deeper meaning in this moment. Your eyes are open, but he has closed his, brow furrowed as if in concentration. You smile softly, curling your fingers around his length, which prompts him to let out a shuddering breath. His eyes open. They meet yours._

_He was not ready before, not completely, but you continue to stroke him patiently, coaxing each soft noise from his lips as gently as you can. Your patience pays off as his hands move to grip your thighs, a sign that he wants more. Not wanting to deny him anything, you raise yourself up on your knees, untying your own trousers as he presses his cheek to your stomach. You stroke his hair, noticing how strange it is to be above him in any way._

_After a moment, he lets go, allowing you to kick off your trousers and shed your tunic quickly. He is still clothed in near full armor, but this does not bother you. The way his eyes flick over your body, pupils blown wide, banishes any shyness you might have felt. It is comforting to feel so secure in your nudity, especially around someone who, at one time, would have made you nervous if you were fully clothed and holding an axe._

_You bring your hand up, intending to crudely spit into your palm, but he stops you, catching your hand in his and brings it to his mouth. You let him kiss your palm, shivering as his tongue darts out, grazing against it. A breathy laugh escapes your mouth as he laps at the sensitive skin there, wetting it with an expression that seems almost close to his normal taunting grin._

_When he is satisfied, his grip loosens, freeing you to reach down and return the favor, running your spit slicked palm along his length, and you kiss him as your hands works, addicted to the way his lips feel and taste pressed against your own._

_His flavor is ever changing, often mead, or smoke, or mushrooms, sometimes pine sap, or even blood, but right now it tastes like dried salt from the ocean and something cloying that you think is fear._

_You shift forward, and he hooks his chin over your shoulder, lips brushing your ear as you line yourself up. He speaks, and his usual bubbling taunts are tinged with unease, shown in the way his voice trembles slightly._

**Did you pray to your god for me, priest? For my safe passage across the seas? Or did you beg for a wave to drown me so that I would never be able to degrade you again?** ****

_You cannot help but smile at this, for you see his insults for what they really are. He was- he is worried that you resent him for what he does to you, but how could he think that when you do just as much to him? Your sins are your own, not his, and you made a clear choice, if not the first time than the many encounters after that._

**_I prayed to Thor for your safe return, and every night I grew sickened with worry that you would not return to me. I often thought of you laying on your pallet in some strange forest, awaiting the raid in the morning, and I wondered if you thought of me too._ **

_He lets out a laugh that sounds more like a choked sob, and when he next speaks, his voice does not shake despite the raw emotion it conveys._

**Of course I thought of you, priest. I think of you often, but the memory of you is a poor substitution for this. Even the touch of another cannot compare…**

_Now it is your turn to laugh, and yours is not mirthful either, but a drawn out moan as you sink down onto him. He pants into the crook of your shoulder, mouthing at the bare skin there as you shift and arch into the scratch of his clothes. You can feel his beard grazing against your neck, and you cannot resist turning your head to rub your own growing stubble against his ear._

_A noise escapes him, and your heart leaps as you realize it was a giggle. He slowly returns to his old self, each rise and fall of your hips bringing more life back into him. But he does not let the mask of crazed mirth slip back into place, the mask that long ago melded with his skin until pulling it away became a torture that he did not see the benefit of suffering through._

_But it had been pried loose, whether by the screams of dying warriors or the ceaseless beating of waves, and you hate the fact that you are pleased you get more than a glimpse of what’s underneath. He had to suffer for you to see him, and for that, you grieve, but you do not wish to think of that when you are allowed to be with him when he is like this._

_Your muscles stretch and burn, matching the harsh sound of your breath as it whooshes out of your lungs with your every movement. He remains, for the most part, a docile participant, unmoving besides the slight roll of his hips to meet yours each time you sink onto his lap. One hand remains twined in your hair, the other grips your thigh to help give you leverage as you ride him._

_His stoicism unravels so quickly you are almost shocked, and a strange sense of pride fills your chest, another sin you can add to your ever-growing list, as you watch him gasp and moan beneath you. Those sounds are for you, because of your actions, and you suddenly realize how he must feel when your positions are switched, when he is the one in control and you are under him, begging for more._

_You rock forward, and he hits a spot he had only been brushing before, one you do not know the name of, one that makes you believe in the gods and deny Christ in one breath because there was no other way that an act so sinful could make galaxies swirl behind your eyes._

_You cry out as every sensation peaks at once, and you vaguely realize that he has joined you in your bliss as his hand in your hair tightens, pulling your head back to expose your neck so he can bite into your skin. You missed this act, missed him claiming you, and you can tell he did too by how he does not stop at just one, but instead sucks a makeshift collar of bruises around your throat._

_When he releases your hair, you fall against his chest, holding him as tightly as he holds you. He feels more solid than he did before, less insubstantial, and you listen to his breath as it evens out soothingly._

_In a moment, or several, longer if possible, you will have to pull away. Clean the traces of yourself off of his armor, make sure your own visage is not too rumpled, and part ways. He will return to his house, the woman he loves, and you will return to your bed, empty and cold, wishing for his company._

_He will miss you too, although it will take you a long while to believe this, despite his own words telling you so. You will, eventually, have opportunities to sleep with him, really sleep, not just join your bodies in a rushed coupling, but hold his jagged form, his face softened by dreams, wake up with his arms wound around you like vines, keeping you close to him, his body curled around you, feeling warmer in his embrace than you would be wrapped in the thickest furs possible._

_You wish you knew what the future held back then, as you rise on shaky legs, feeling his gaze on your back as you dress with tired and trembling fingers. He stands as well, fixing his own appearance with a greater ease than you fix yours, but this time he does not wait silently for you to finish, but steps close to you and gathers you in his arms, pressing your foreheads together like Ragnar does so often._

_He does not kiss you, but looks into your eyes, one hand curled around your neck as his thumb traces over one of the bruises, one of his bruises, almost tenderly. The act is more intimate than a kiss, but you feel the need for more. You wonder if more will ever be enough. Before you can even consider the repercussions of your actions, you lean in, tilting your head and brushing your lips over his neck, biting down as harshly as he did, claiming him as he claimed you._

_His hand tightens on your neck, gripping your hair, but he does not pull you away. In fact, he presses closer to you as you mark him, his breath escaping in an all too pleased hiss._

_You pull away and he drops his hand from your neck to feel the mark on his, and you notice, with a slightly vindictive sense of satisfaction, that it is too stark to ignore, too high to mask with a collar, and too distinct to be a wound from battle. Without another word, you stroll off, the idea of returning to your solitary bed no longer so depressing, because despite the fact that he will not sleep alone, as you will, your mark is on his skin, and anyone who beds him, anyone who sees him, will see the claim there. They might not know it is yours, but you will know, and so will he._

_Just as anyone who looks at you for longer than a cursory glance will see the marks of teeth at your throat, a collar you will wear with pride, flaunting it in the face of anyone, any man, any Jarl, any King, any God, no matter their power or strength. For the first time in your life, you feel brave, and unashamed._

_You know his eyes stay on you as you walk into town, and the feeling of his gaze on your back will keep you company through the night, along with the smell of him on your clothes and the lewd pleasure you now take from the sensation of warmth dripping down your thighs._


End file.
